Mass proportions, like my ass – which has grown exponentially as well I might add.

My general disdain of anything that remotely related to housework, cleaning, yard work or – dare I say it – activity in general, has moulded me into this lazy fat cow that takes up residence on my sofa from the hours of 7pm to 11pm, then in my bed from 11pm to 5am.

I know, right? It’s like confessional or something. Except I’ve never had my first communion, so it can’t be confessional. I think. Ah, forget it, I have no idea what I’m talking about.

This fat cow has taken over my life to the point where You want me to climb 13 steps to the kitchen to get a drink? You gotta be FUCKIN’ KIDDING ME!!?

I don’t know where things made a turn from the active busy-all-the-time lifestyle I used to lead. I can’t pin point the time in my life where I decided that breathing was all the exercise that I needed. It’s actually quite shameful.

Working full time with two young children, a small business of my own, a house that is in need of some serious TLC doesn’t bode well for getting svelte, but every little bit can help right? And so, I’ve started walking 5 miles a day while I listen to the Glee soundtrack, trying my damnedest not to sing out loud.

But it’s not just the need for activity in my life, it’s the lack of organization. I have structure, plenty of that, but it’s the filing, the organizing the knowing where the fuck I’m supposed to be and when that’s getting to me.

I know my house is in a state of disarray. It’s going to likely be like that for many years to come, but the constant clutter makes me edgy and stabby on a good day. Even the rooms we’re not currently using are still in boxes awaiting the time that the bedrooms are painted and ready to be set up.

That after 3 months of living here. It makes me itchy just thinking about the idea of that stuff waiting to be unpacked past Christmas (which is less than 60 days away FOR THE LOVE OF BABY JESUS).

Here comes my confession, are you ready?

Wait for it…

I want to be more Type A than Type B.

I want to alter my personality just so to take on just a little more caring and a little less – SLUG.

I want to be acutely aware of everything in my house. I want it all to have a place, I want it clean and I want it clutter free. I want to have my important papers filed away, I want my bins labeled (preferably with a Brother P-touch PT-1010 Labeller)* and I want baskets!

I want to have my kids in activities so they’re busy.

I want to be a PTA mom, a soccer mom, a hockey mom.

I want to wash my floors BEFORE I develop a tick and am consumed with guilt that my youngest will develop some weird ailment from eating shit off my kitchen floor.

I want to have the beds made, the rooms cleaned, the laundry done and the garden pristine.

I want to have my Christmas shopping well underway.

I want to be that lady who is always put together and looks like she’s going to a fashion show when all she’s doing is getting diapers at the market.

I want to host girl’s nights, remember my friend’s kid’s birthdays and to bring the field trip form in on time.

I want run a successful on-line business while indulging in social media.

I want to aim high and meet my goals.

I want to keep up with the Jones’.

I guess it’s fair to say I’m fighting an internal battle of wills. I want to be someone I’m not and I’m really down about the person that I am. I want more for myself and I don’t know where to start.

So I just don’t.

Instead I eat cake and talk shit about those uppity bitches.

No, not you. I could never talk shit about you. I mean those other uppity bitches.

_________

* I am in no way being endorsed for the link to the Brother P-touch PT-1010 Labeller. Doesn’t mean I’m against it either. *waves* Hey, Brother!

• Disconnected
• Of babes
• The Wind

Our ‘new’ stove wasn’t quite up to snuff as it required a small set of pliers to turn the oven on, and seeing that the dial was broken and long gone there was no way to determine was temperature the oven was on except for trying to gauge it by the rotation while turning the small pin behind the fake wood facade.

The clock forever remained on 4:42 but managed to have the right time – two times a day.

My favourite part? The wallpaper.

What was completely surreal about this paper was the fact that my dad’s old farm house had this exact patterned paper in one of the guest rooms, which was my bedroom two weekends per month for YEARS.

This paper was gorgeous in that 100 year old farm house. There was no border in my bedroom, but with floor-to-ceiling lace curtains and espresso brown dark wood floors, it was really beautiful. In this kitchen it was little stifled, a whole lot of ugly.

Oh, the spice rack that was left behind for us? Wicked awesome, right?

A full length shot of the kitchen eating area beyond with my what-we-thought-was-in-working-order dishwasher. That was until I turned it on to clean it with scalding hot water and bleach. The piece of junk proceeded to leak all over the floor. So not cool.

Oh! And the ceiling fan…

Notice anything a little, um… awkward about the ceiling fan?

Ya… opening the cupboard above the stove while the ceiling fan is on could be extremely hazardous. Wonder who would win that battle…

And, this is where we began. Things are by no means complete, but we’re working slowly towards completing one room at a time. Our renovation is going to be a feature of sorts. I had toyed with the idea of creating a renovation type blog, but I just don’t know that I’d ever keep it up-to-date (Because I’ve been so dedicated to doing that here and all).

So it begins… welcome along on our adventure of pretending we know what we’re doing. Buckle up, it’s going to be a bumpy ride, because dude? I already wish I had enough money to hire Jeff Lewis and all his psycho babble.

Oh, and please feel free to laugh at my misfortune. I have. Though it was kind of manic, but whatever.

Random Posts

• playing catch up and a gratuitous belly shot
• This is Where The Dog Comes in and Says – You’re Doing it WRONG!
• life interupted

So not true.

This past summer, when things went to shit for me – both mentally and personally – I found myself turning to my blog less and less. I felt discontented with the idea of sharing my low points with anyone who happens upon this space. I was concerned that people I thought loved me would be using my words against me behind my back. I thought that there would be emails and chat sessions going on hedging bets on when I would completely lose my shit.

Narcissistic? Yes.

Self absorbed? Yes.

Paranoid? Yes.

Right? God, I hope not.

That’s the joys of putting oneself out there in The Google Cache. It’s a fact of life for a blogger that someone will not like what you said. It’s inevitable, there will be emails, links, chat sessions and DMs about you at some point or another. But, when I was tumbling into that vortex of darkness, I wasn’t okay with that. I contemplated many times pulling this site down and not looking back. Even though there is support in this community (and I am eternally grateful to those whom have been here, willing me on) there is a very dark side to blogging. A dark side which can stifle and rob a person of their will to write. I’ve bared witness to many people share their darkest moments online and seen how the mob mentality can alter the winds of support gravely. Suddenly people are quick to change their minds and begin speculating that it’s all a “show”; for traffic.

We’re a narcissistic bunch, us bloggers. Most of the time, we’re writing with the intent of entertaining a group of people, but some fail to realize that not everything is shared for the sole purpose of an extra couple hits. Not everyone is thinking about how sharing through their difficult times will garner them a new follower or how it will affect an Alexa rating.

For me, the thought of it being assumed I was blogging my difficult times for some traffic seized my ability to put my feelings into words. I didn’t want to be the site where the drama seekers came to find their next train wreck. So I decided I wouldn’t write it out any further; I wouldn’t continue to offer tickets to the show. People would just have to speculate whether I made it through this.

I didn’t write, and you know what? It’s made it worse.

I may not be a fantastic writer, but for as long as I can remember I have written out my feelings, my stories and kept a journal. I’ve forgone the journal for an online version and still, I wrote nothing. Hell, nevermind that, I couldn’t even complete a paragraph and save it as a draft or private post.

I froze.

Not only did I stop writing, I stopped reading. I lost touch with a lot that’s been going on and I felt feel guilty. The Dreaded Blogger Guilt.

The Dreaded Blogger’s Guilt includes side effects of: regret for having 5000+ unread feeds and hitting “Mark All Read”; obsession that every post written on the whole interwebs is about YOU! (see Blogger Narcissism); irrational fears that you’ll never ever write another single entry ever again!

See, NUTSO.

It got to the point I was in tears Monday night (while watching Dog the Bounty Hunter) after I’d obsessed for so long about the fact that I haven’t written anything; and not that I hadn’t written anything for you (I love you, you know that, but this is about me right now m’kay?) but that I couldn’t even squeak out a measly paragraph of anything remotely discernible. (Seriously, ask Karen. I sent her about 1000 words of gibberish talking about puzzles and bitches. It was NOT pretty, and she totally called me on it too. LOL)

But now I’m hopefully back. That shit that’s been eating at me is no longer relevant because I have no control over it and therefore I will not let it get to me one second longer. I am moving forward.  I will continue writing and dammit, I WILL be able to poop again.

Side note: Is it just me, or do you find that mental constipation coincides with physical constipation? No, just me? Alright then, moving on.

I’m back bitches.

• The Wind
• That Girl.
• Taking Back My Life

As we waited at the light he said, “Mommy? I love Hudson.”

“Awe, that’s sweet Carter. You’re a good big brother,” I told him, “You like being a big brother, don’t you?”

“Ya. I like Hudson.”

“Would you like to have another baby brother? Maybe a baby sister someday?” I asked

“Nope. Not today Mommy,” he replied still looking out the window.

“No, not today Dude; someday.”

“We can’t Mommy,” he replied matter-of-factly.

Curious I asked why we can’t. Seriously? When kids say stuff like that it freaks me out. Do they know something we don’t know?

“No, we can’t. Because the Halloween store close soon. Halloween will be over.”

• Hierarchy of Suckage*
• Confirmation That I Should Never Leave My House
• Wherein I admit something you will likely think is completely asinine

I stand my ground. I can’t lose my pieces again. I hold them tight, begging the wind to leave them intact, but it doesn’t listen.

The wind howls through me, carrying everything away. I stand there watching, unmoving, as they are scattered carelessly about. I try to remember just where those pieces fit. Where they belong. I can’t.

Silence.

I imagine what it was like to be whole. I want that again. I’m afraid to gather them up again in case they are ripped from me. I can’t fight any longer, but I can’t give up.

The wind natters at my back. I try to ignore it in hopes that it will leave me well enough alone as I slowly collect my dispelled pieces. I protect them fiercely this time. I can’t afford to lose them again. The wind won’t defeat me.

I am re-building. Stronger.

:::

I’ve taken a leave from this site over the past two weeks completely by chance. I’ve been really busy with work, our new house and my children. From an unexpected trip to Pittsburgh, writing a number of reports, to re-tiling our main bathroom, pruning trees and closing our pool I’ve had very little time to reflect and write (not counting my mindless banter of course).

• Thanksgiving weekend came and went with Mike working everyday. I spent time with my family and my kids for three days, without my husband. Needless to say, I do realize now just how much help he really can be when he’s here.

• I traveled to Pittsburgh and back: I didn’t get lost, forget where I parked my car or get asked a million questions by customs.

• I’ve gotten a prescription for new meds and a referral for a sleep study. I’ve started seeing a chiropractor three times a week.

I’m trying to get my life back on track. Just hoping the wind stays at my back and I can keep it together.

• That Girl.
• Disconnected
• Taking Back My Life

Kevin blogs at Always Home and Uncool. He has asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife’s birthday.

:::

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter’s cheeks, joints and legs was something he’d never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn’t admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions — none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner — then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn’t know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter’s knee showed signs of an “allergic reaction” even though we had ruled out every allergy source — obvious and otherwise — that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift — a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago — Oct. 2, 2002 — the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter’s first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn’t tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don’t know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter’s condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

• Gutted
• In Maddie’s Name
• Five Months: Time Doesn’t Heal All Wounds

I mean, I think we’re good tippers.

Hairdresser? 20 per cent. Nail salon? 25 per cent. Dinner? Usually between 20 – 35 per cent.

Mike’s big thing? Remember to keep his drink full and you’ll receive a big tip. If he could get away with it, Mike is the type of person who would leave a wad of dollar bills on the table, adding to it and taking away depending on the service he was receiving.

I, on the other hand, always feel guilty. I feel good about tipping and like to make people feel good about getting a good tip.

It’s so childish, but I giggle a little each time I write tip.

I really wasn’t going anywhere with this except I wanted to use that clip and had to make it fit somewhere.

Anyway, as I was saying – I like giving a god tip to someone who deserves it. It makes me feel good and I’m sure they don’t mind seeing a little bigger tip than was anticipated.

Doing something nice for someone gives me a little bit of a high. You know? That gushing, happy feeling you get when you give someone something they really like or didn’t expect?

I remember one night we went for dinner at a local diner. It was before Hudson born, Carter was particularly ornery; no one was in a good mood. Carter was crying while he picked everything off his tray and proceeded to litter the floor below his highchair with majority of his meal. I would have left had the restaurant been a little busier, but I was starving and very short on patience as they’d frayed to their very last thread. The waitress was no doubt a bit frazzled by the mess and the snot covered teary mug staring back at her – Carter’s not mine.

Before we left, I made a point of cleaning the food from the carpet below the highchair and leaving her a rather large tip. As we were leaving, she approached us with our change which we insisted she kept. Twenty dollars for a thirty dollar meal. She gushed about how thankful she was as I apologized for the mess my kid had created. Though I was frazzled and felt a little lot embarrassed for letting my child behave as he had rather than nipping it in the bud and leaving, I was happy that she was so thrilled with the that we left her.

Ever since then I have been a little more conscious of the amount of the tip I am leaving. Even though I think the server should be grateful for any amount they receive, I feel better thinking that it may make their day to see a somewhat larger tip then what they may have expected.

And what have I learned from this?

Clearly I put far too much thought into tipping.

:::

This post is brought to you by the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club. This month’s book: Do One Nice Thing by Debbie Tenzer. Check out her amazing book as well as her website dedicated to doing something nice for someone else.

Random Posts

• Tom Jackson is here!
• child labour please!
• my blog is no longer a baby

Then.

I really heard the words.

The words which I’ve heard before yet didn’t really think about until that moment.

I don’t know if I can yell any louder
How many time I’ve kicked you outta here?
Or said something insulting?

That Lump began to form in my throat. Unable to swallow it down, my eyes welled up with tears.

I sang louder in the hopes of drowning out my thoughts. The thoughts of how I’ve treated my husband. The thoughts of how I’ve battered him with my words repeatedly; digging deep to find something – anything – I could say that would garner some sort of reaction.

To hurt him.

How did I become so obnoxious?
What is it with you that makes me act like this?
I’ve never been this nasty

For as long as I can remember I have verbally assaulted him whenever we’ve had an argument. It was three and a half years into our relationship when I first threw something at him fully intended to harm him. Though I haven’t thrown anything in years, words are still my weapon of choice.

I forgot to say out loud how beautiful you really are to me
I cannot be without, you’re my perfect little punching bag
And I need you, I’m sorry

I’ve told him to leave.

I’ve told him I didn’t know why we were together.

I’ve said that if it weren’t for the children, I would have left a long time ago.

Can’t you tell that this is all just a contest?
The one that wins will be the one that hits the hardest
But baby I don’t mean it
I mean it, I promise

I don’t have a clue why I say these things; why I want to cause him heartache. I don’t know why I think hurting him would make things better; better for whom? I know I don’t feel better after it’s done, and I’m damn sure he doesn’t feel all that great. So why? Why do I feel the need to belittle and degrade him?

Please don’t leave me
I always say how I don’t need you
But it’s always gonna come right back to this
Please, don’t leave me

It’s a two way street. We’re both guilty of verbally assaulting each other but I can’t account for his reasons, only my own – none of which I have.

I’ve often wondered if we were together for all the wrong reasons. We began dating on a whim in college. It was summer break, there was only a small group of us remaining behind to work or complete extra course throughout the summer semester. Mike and I began hanging out more frequently and our friendship quickly crossed boundaries moving rapidly towards an exclusive relationship. From there we became engaged; bound. Though we waited another five years before we actually got married it sometimes still feels as though we rushed things.

I’ve been with him since I was eighteen. I’ve only known my adult life with him, and though I’ve grown, sometimes I feel as if he thinks he’s still living the bachelor life and we’re still in college. Much of our relationship was based on sexual attraction; the older we’ve gotten, the busier our lives have gotten, the more that has changed. It seems as though instead of learning to love each other past the sexual chemistry, we’ve struggled to know each other at all. We’re stuck in limbo.

Please don’t leave me
I always say how I don’t need you
But it’s always gonna come right back to this
Please, don’t leave me

I feel as though now I am just a mother figure for him to rely on.

Remind him to pay his tickets.

Make the phone calls.

Book the appointments.

Pay the bills.

Pick up the kids.

Make the dinner.

Wash the laundry.

Put the clothes away.

Make the bed.

I feel like he gets a free ride.

He will argue to the death that that’s not the case; though, I cannot help but feel as though I carry a significant amount of the responsibilities in this relationship.

It makes me bitter.

I resent that while I was home caring for the kids he was able to leave the house for the day.

For the record: I am extremely, undeniably happy that I had that opportunity and would never change that.

I resent that he would call me at the end of his day solely to find out what was on the menu for dinner. I resent that he would come home and comment that I got to be home all day doing nothing while he had to work: that he had to go to work and bust his ass all day while I got to be home – doing nothing but sit on the computer all day. His digs have left me rather indignant.

Maybe he is bitter that I was home, I don’t know.

Now that I’m back to work it’s been a never ending battle of wills as I fight to divvy the household duties while I feel he fights to keep his child-like freedom.

I think it’s played a considerable part in how I’ve been struggling and so miserable as of late.

:::

The other night I blew up over his caulking job on the kitchen sink. We fought. I yelled and said everything and anything I could to hurt him once again.

Over caulking, people.

Then as The Guilt set in I decided it was about time I tried to put into words how I’ve been feeling.

I told him how I’ve felt let down and that when I married him I thought I was gaining a partner, not a child. How we’re supposed to be a team and it feels as though we’ve been on opposite sides for so long we don’t even know how to support each other. We don’t know how to be there for one another.

I *know* there’s more beyond just the chemistry. There has to be. I know I love him. I know he loves me. We’ve been through so much and still depend on each other greatly, but – shouldn’t we have found that something by now? He says we have it but I am so filled with anger lately that I just can’t see.

I think he could be right.

• Wherein I admit something you will likely think is completely asinine
• Disconnected
• Of babes

I am angry. So angry. All the time. My children are constantly whining, crying, asking questions, repeating “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?” for what seems like an eternity; they’re begging, bribing and making deals. They’re being – wait for it – CHILDREN yet I find myself reacting quickly without thought. I yell, I threaten and I walk away. I take my aggression out on my husband verbally; he retaliates and it’s a never ending vicious circle of awful and hateful words. Sometimes in front of the kids.

Then the guilt.

The dreaded, unrelenting Mommy Guilt sets in and I find myself wallowing in front of mindless television while I attempt to numb any feeling by way of my emotional eating. It’s only a temporary remedy because it comes back bigger, faster and stronger the next time.

I have dreams. Dreams I fear will never come to fruition due to circumstances which have altered who I am. I used to be an organized and ambitious person. I used to love going out with friends, socializing and meeting new people. I used to dress up, do my hair and love searching out the best outfit. I used to take pride in my work, enjoy my job and have some semblance of professionalism. I never knew the word can’t. Now? Met with even the smallest road block, I give up.

I hate this new me. I hate her with every fiber of my being, yet I do nothing to try and rid her from my life. It’s like watching from a distance as she gives up and slink away, shoulders slumped. I want to yell at her to shape up, take control and love her life; it’s the only one she gets. Take those chances, buy that new outfit, get your hair done; because really? It’s a small price to pay for a little control and happiness.

That girl? She’s a roadblock. She’s keeping me from traveling, seeing my friends, having night’s out and laughing.

Oh, the laughing. We used to laugh all the time. I mean, that’s how this all started (well, she has a HUGE part in it too).

I want to tell her that stress is a way of life: it’s all about how you manage it. She NEEDS to get a grip. She needs to stop yelling at my husband before he’s had enough and gives up. There’s only so much a person can take and it’s really not fair to expect the world of one person. He’s only human. She needs to see that. She needs to see that men just aren’t programmed like women: everyone knows that but her.

Maybe she needs to seek some help that maybe just a general practitioner can’t provide? Maybe someone else can tell her what is wrong and what steps she can take to improve it? Maybe someone else can tell her that medication isn’t the be all to end all and there are other methods to achieve the happiness she so desires?

Maybe she’ll listen to someone else.

:::

Thank you all for your comments on my latest entries. I know you’re there for my and your support means more to me than I can even say. I’ve tried a couple times to go back and respond to comments, but end up writing novels and then deleting them so I gave up.

I’ve made an appointment to also see a chiropractor to try and rid myself of these awful headaches I’ve been getting. From my evaluation she said “She’s got her work cut out for her”.  I see her on Saturday for my first appointment. Monday I see my family doctor and I am thinking I should maybe print out these latest entries for her…. I don’t know though. Should I?

• The Wind
• Disconnected
• Taking Back My Life

Post-paturm depression just seems to have such an awful stigma attached to it; like a woman suffering is immediately assumed to be a danger to herself or her child(ren). No one wants to have that label.

That’s why when I read my discharge papers it knocked the wind out of me.

Even if I was (am) experiencing PPD I feel as though I’m not able to admit it because of the sideways glances and unsaid concerns. I believe others are thinking that I am a danger to my child(ren) and that? That makes me even more insane as I worry what people are thinking of me and my abilities as a parent.

Ashamed.

Ashamed that I am human.

Ashamed that I need help.

Ashamed that I don’t really have it all together.

Yes, if you read the previous post I’ve linked to you’ll notice I have a differing opinion now. I know, I know. I am all over the board, but that’s not the point nor the purpose of this post.

It’s hard to admit having post-partum depression because even though I *know* I haven’t failed, I can’t make others believe that; and what I *think* others believe plays on my mind constantly. Yet, I still find myself saying I don’t have post-partum depression because *I* haven’t been told I do – even though it’s on my hospital paperwork I have yet to accept it. Still.

So coupled with trying to hold everything together as it’s frayed at the seams over the past few months, I’ve neglected myself. It’s caught up to me. My mind, my body, myself.

Post-partum or not, I am going to see my doctor again at the end of the month about participating in a sleep study to see if I do indeed have Sleep Apnea and about my medication. Even though I have began taking it religiously again, I am not me. I don’t believe I have been since I started taking it back in 2006, but I just didn’t do anything about it. Call it lazy, call it settling, whatever.

For the past three years, I just accepted the fact I had (have) no desire to do anything, my activity level has been slim to none, I’ve gained an additional 20lbs, and I am just going through the motions.  I attribute some of that to the side effects of the medication, but honestly? This is also no way to live me life. Sure, I’m not yelling and constantly aggravated, but who wants to live a life that’s been wasted away sitting at a desk, on a couch, on a computer, watching television?

Wow, I think I have more to deal with than just being medicated.

As I read this back all I get from it is I want to be happy. I want to love the life I have. I want to enjoy my family, love my new house and participate. Participate in my life.

• Disconnected
• The Wind
• That Girl.